"He proposed to come himself," said Marjorie, with a proud flash of her eyes, "and he proposed to teach me himself."
"Oh, yes, to be sure, but she and the cat will miss him all the same."
"It's all sudden."
"[missing text] happen sudden, nowadays. I keep my eyes shut and things keep whirling around."
Grandmother was seated in an armchair with her feet resting on a home-made foot stool, clad in a dark calico, with a little piece of gray shawl pinned closely around her neck, every lock of hair was concealed beneath a black, borderless silk cap, with narrow black silk strings tied under her trembling chin, her lips were sunken and seamed, her eyelids partly dropped over her sightless eyes, her withered, bony fingers were laboriously pushing the needles in and out through a soft gray wool sock, every few moments Marjorie took the work from her to pick up a dropped stitch or two and to knit once around. The old eyes never once suspected that the work grew faster than her own fingers moved. Once she remarked plaintively: "Seems to me it takes you a long time to pick up one stitch."
"There were three this time," returned Marjorie, seriously.
"What does the master learn you about?" asked Mrs. Rheid.
"Oh, the school studies! And I read the dictionary by myself."
"I thought you had some new words."
"I want some good words," said Marjorie.